


Find the Lady

by JohnAmendAll



Series: Fabulous Investigations [4]
Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Awesome Zoe Heriot, Classic Who companions are awesome, Clever Women, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoë and Isobel are invited to a friend's house in the country. But when they get there, their hostess is nowhere to be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Problem

To the casual observer, the two young women sharing a table at the Purple Dahlia Cafe would have seemed no different from the rest of the clientele. Like the other customers, they were dressed in the latest fashions, designed to make them stand out from the crowd — which, paradoxically, caused them to blend in. The hypothetical observer, had he caught a word or two of their conversation, would not have found it out of place, either, correctly determining that the two were contemplating a short holiday at the house of an acquaintance. 

Zoë Heriot read and reread the letter. 

"It looks genuine," she said grudgingly. "It is your friend's handwriting, isn't it?" 

"Sometimes I don't get you at all," Isobel Watkins said. "Of course it's her handwriting. Why shouldn't it be?" 

Zoë shrugged. "It's just that she wants us to go and stay with her in some village or other. You know the sort of things that happen every time we go to a village." 

"That was different, silly. Of course there's trouble when we're helping the Brigadier out, but we won't get any of that with Sandy." 

"How long's she lived in this village?" She checked the letter again. "King's Bottom. Well, that doesn't sound like a real place." 

"Five years, I think. And I promise you it's real." 

Zoë handed the letter back across the table. "I'm surprised she's lasted that long. I mean, the countryside's full of witches and satanists and poachers and murderous lesbians and folk dancers and aliens and ghosts and evil pagans..." 

Isobel held up her hands. "Don't be silly. There won't be any of that stuff at King's Bottom." 

"That's what you said about Badgersby, and look what happened that time." 

"Sorry, I can't place the name." 

"The one with the vampires," Zoë said patiently. "The ones who insisted on flirting with us before they killed us horribly." 

"I took that as a compliment." Isobel tossed her hair. "I consider myself eminently flirtable." 

"I can never think of anything to say." 

"You seemed to manage last time. I thought saying 'Vamp this' and zapping them went down a storm." 

"I don't like it when we have to use deadly force." Zoë smiled reluctantly. "Mind you, they deserved it for spelling 'vampire' with a Y. And at least they weren't the sort that sparkle." 

*

In the end, Isobel carried her point, and by late afternoon Isobel's Union Jack-painted Mini drew up outside The Lilacs, the principal residence of King's Bottom. The journey had been uneventful, with only one slight delay caused by the need to top up the radiator. Not for the first time, Zoë had suggested that a car with greater mechanical reliability might serve Isobel better; as ever, Isobel had countered that no other car was even half as dolly as the Mini, and there the matter rested. 

"Here we are," Isobel said. "Let's go in and say Hello. We can sort out the luggage later." 

She suited her actions to her words, bounding up to the front door and giving the bell pull a firm tug. From within the house, a distant chime could be heard; then nothing. A second ring produced no better results. 

"What's up?" Zoë asked, as she came up. 

"I can't make her hear." Isobel rang the bell again. 

"It doesn't look as if anyone's at home." Zoë left the door, and picked her way through the elaborate flowerbed until she could see in through a window. "There doesn't seem to be anyone in there. It looks a bit of a mess." 

Isobel could feel a nasty sensation of worry gnawing at her. "What sort of mess? Burglars?" 

"I don't think so, but someone's knocked over one of those bowls of dried flower bits." 

"Pot pourri." 

"If you say so. It's gone everywhere." 

"Well, it doesn't look like Sandy's here. Maybe she's gone into the village for something. We should ask around." 

"That sounds reasonable. Just remember to lock the car first. I don't want a repeat of what happened with those druids." 

Isobel tossed her hair again. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?" 

Such was the size of the hamlet that their inquiries did not take long. The matronly proprietor of the village shop had not seen Isobel's friend for two days, and supposed her to be away from home. 

"Folks do say," she added, "as the house be haunted." 

"Haunted?" Isobel echoed. 

"Furniture knocked over and strange writing on the mirrors. Voices calling when no-one's there. Like as not Mrs Wilmington couldn't stand it and went away." 

"Do you know if her car's gone?" Zoë asked. 

The shopkeeper shook her head. "She keeps it in a garage round the back — you'd not see it unless you went round. Paul Allenby, now, he does a bit in their garden. Maybe you should ask him." 

"Where might we find him?" 

"He won't be home from his work. Not yet." She looked at the clock. "I daresay you'll find him in the Magpie later this evening." 

Accordingly, Isobel and Zoë turned their steps in the direction of the hamlet's one and only inn. 

"I suppose we ought to take a room for the night," Zoë said. "It sounds as if your friend's gone off somewhere, and I'd rather not spend the night in your car if I can help it." 

"Yes." Isobel gave a slightly exaggerated shudder. "I don't think I'd want to try and sleep so close to a haunted house, anyway." 

*

While the bar downstairs had been a fine example of rustic charm, the bedrooms in the Magpie were entirely contemporary, furnished in the latest style, with built-in cupboards, formica on all the flat surfaces, and what Isobel thought was rather an unfortunate choice of wallpaper. 

"This is it, I suppose," she said. 

Zoë looked around with distaste. 

"They have this sort of thing in museums," she said. "It looked pretty grim when I saw it then, and I don't really fancy the idea of staying in it now." 

"What do you think a bedroom should be like, then?" 

"Minimalist," Zoë said firmly. "And white. You don't want the walls clashing with your clothes every morning. And as for the furniture... look at this chair. Could you make it less ergonomic if you tried?" 

"No idea." 

"You probably could, but only by putting a big spike on the seat. Where's the bathroom?" 

"At the end of the corridor." 

"Oh, dear. Still, at least it's indoors. We might have had to use a shed at the bottom of the garden. They had one of those in the museum as well." She hoisted her suitcase onto her bed, extracted various garments, and began to change. "I suggest we wear warm clothes. Depending what this Allenby man tells us, we might have to go out ghosthunting this evening." 

"I wish it wasn't a poltergeist," Isobel said. She flung open her suitcase and began to lay out her collection of skirts. "They throw stuff around and make a mess. That means I can't risk wearing anything expensive." 

"I don't suppose you've brought something practical?" Zoë removed her dress and pulled on a pair of trousers. "I know it would be a radical departure for you." 

"I packed for a relaxing holiday, not running round after ghosts at dead of night." Isobel turned back to her skirts. "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. I suppose I can risk this one if anything dreadful happens." In the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her friend's ensemble. "What on earth do you think you've come as?" 

"Well, I thought I'd go for the Sarah Lund look." 

"Never heard of her." 

"You wouldn't have. Anyway, she dresses like this." 

Isobel cast a despairing eye over Zoë's sensible shoes, leather trousers and elaborately patterned jumper. 

"I can see this case isn't going to be one of our shining beacons of fashion," she said. 

*

Armed with an accurate description, Isobel and Zoë had no difficulty finding Paul Allenby in the bar. In person, he turned out to be well-built, young, blond, and charming. 

"Nice to meet you," he said. "You're friends of Mrs Wilmington's, then?" 

"I am, anyway," Isobel said. "I'm taking Zoë along to meet her. Only she didn't seem to be there. And Mrs Rook in the shop said you knew the house." 

"That's right. I do a bit of gardening for her, as and when." 

"Have you done any in the last couple of days?" Zoë asked. 

"Not since Monday." 

"Mrs Rook also mentioned something to do with ghosts." 

Allenby laughed. "They're a superstitious lot in these parts. Ten to one someone heard a door slamming and imagined the rest of it." 

"You're not from round here, then?" Isobel said. "I was thinking you didn't sound very rustic." 

"No, I'm a townie. It's my wife who's the local girl." 

"You're married?" Isobel looked a trifle put out, as if dismissing a barely-formed design on him. "Oh." 

"That's right." A thought seemed to strike him. "Tell you what. Becky — that's my wife — she was best friends at school with Kath Harris, and it's Kath Harris who does the cleaning up at The Lilacs." 

"You mean she could have a key?" Zoë asked. 

"Maybe." He gave them both a cautious look. "Of course, I don't know if you really are Mrs Wilmington's friends, do I? How do I know you won't ransack the place?" 

"Do you know her handwriting?" Isobel asked. "I could show you her letter." 

He shook his head. "I couldn't swear to it. But keep that handy: I'm sure Kath could tell, if you showed it to her." 

"But it would be all right to check the garage, wouldn't it?" Zoë said. "You could come with us and make sure we don't do anything we shouldn't." 

"I don't see any harm in that," Allenby admitted. 

*

By the time they reached the garage, it was already dark, or nearly so. But when Mr Allenby — who'd already become 'Paul' to Zoë and Isobel — opened the door, there was ample light to see that the car was still in its place. If Sandy Wilmington was elsewhere, she hadn't made the journey by car. 

"I suppose she could have gone for a walk or something and got lost," Zoë said, not sounding as if she meant it. 

Isobel shook her head. "Not Sandy. Specially not if she had guests coming — she'd want to make sure everything was ready. And surely if she'd gone out someone would have seen her. The same if she'd caught the bus." 

"We need to get into that house." Zoë was staring at the darkened building as if it was personally offending her by its presence. "You said your wife's friend might have a key." 

Paul nodded. "I'll go and get her." 

As they waited for his return, the minutes dragged out endlessly. Zoë made several circuits of the house, shining her torch at each window in turn, but to little avail. 

"Suppose this Kath woman doesn't have a key," Isobel said. 

"Then I think I could climb in that window." Zoë pointed her torch at a small window under the eaves. Maybe it stood slightly ajar, or maybe it was a trick of the light. "I'm small enough to get through it, I think." 

"How would you get up there?" 

"I saw a ladder in the garage. When Paul comes back he could get it out for us." 

Isobel shook her head. "He's married, remember?" 

"What?" Zoë gave her a look of utter bafflement. "What's that got to do with anything?" 

Sadly, Isobel was laughing too hard at her puzzled expression to explain. 

*

The last traces of day had drained out of the sky by the time Paul returned, accompanied by two excited-looking young women. These were introduced as his wife Becky, and her good friend Kath. Isobel produced her letter once more, which was duly inspected under torchlight by all parties. 

"Well," Kath began, the moment Isobel's good faith was established. "Mrs Wilmington did let me have a key to the back door, so I could pop in and out as need be. She's often away in London, of course. So I don't see as how you shouldn't go in and make sure there's nothing amiss." 

"I looked in through the window earlier," Zoë said. "Someone had spilt a bowl of pot pourri all over the floor. I suppose you didn't notice that, the last time you were in there?" 

"That sort of thing's why I won't go in there now," Kath retorted. "Last time I was in that house—" 

"When was that?" 

"Yesterday morning. Round about eleven, I think. Anyway, when I went in, someone'd upset the umbrella stand in the hall. I didn't think much to it, just stood it up again and went to tidy the dining room. I hadn't been there five minutes when suddenly, I heard the most dreadful crash. Fair sent my heart into my throat, it did. I ran back out into the hall, and there was the umbrella stand all over the floor again." 

"And then you left?" Isobel asked. 

"No, I thought maybe there was someone there who shouldn't be. So I looked the house over, upstairs and down. Not a soul there. But when I came downstairs again, there was writing on the mirror. In red, and it hadn't been there before." 

"What did it say?" 

Kath lowered her voice. "It said 'Sandy', and after that I couldn't hardly make it out. That was enough for me. I got out of that cursed house and I'm not setting foot in there again." 

"She came straight round to our house," Becky added. "She was ever so pale and shivering. Didn't I say, 'You look like you've seen a ghost, Kath'?" 

"Yes, I see." Zoë turned to Isobel. "I suppose we should send for the police." 

"The police?" Kath's reaction was withering. "For a haunted house? What you need's an exorcism, not Jack Wilkins in his big boots." 

"Jack's the local constable," Paul explained. "He lives in the next village over. Comes round on his bike most days." 

Isobel's eyes met Zoë's. They shared a nod. 

"We can't wait for the police," Isobel said firmly. "We're going in. Kath, please can you open the door for us?" 

"You're serious?" Kath asked. 

Isobel affected a nonchalant air. "Whatever's in there, we've dealt with worse." 

Kath nodded, swallowed, and led them to the back door of the house. Her key turned, but the door would only open a few inches. 

"That's odd," she said. "There's something jamming it." 

"Do you think our poltergeist has been barricading itself in?" Zoë said. 

It might just have been the torchlight, but Kath's face was definitely paler. "Don't know what else it could have been." 

"Well, then," Zoë said. "Ladder time."


	2. The Solution

It was the work of minutes for Paul to open the garage, bring the ladder out, and set it up against the side of the house. Not giving herself time for second thoughts, Zoë made her way up it, her torch tucked into the sleeve of her jumper. Sure enough, the window she'd noticed earlier was ajar, and after a bit of fiddling with the catch she was able to open it fully. 

"Here goes," she called down, and squeezed through the narrow gap. Even for someone her size, it was tight. For a moment, she found herself wriggling wildly, half in and half out of the window; then she was through, lying on the floor of a small bathroom amid a welter of flannels, bars of soap, bottles of shampoo and packets of bath salts, which had presumably been standing on the windowsill. Working by torchlight, she got to her feet and made her way downstairs. The house was dark and silent, her footsteps muffled by thick carpet. As she passed through the hall, she noted the overturned umbrella stand and the red scribble on the mirror, but didn't stop to investigate in detail. 

Without any further difficulty, she made her way to the back door, which appeared to have been wedged shut by a broom. Kicking the broom aside, she opened the door, to be greeted by the relieved faces of Isobel and the others. 

"No trouble?" Isobel asked. 

"None whatsoever," Zoë reassured her. "I saw the umbrella stand and so on, but that's all." 

"Right." Isobel turned to her helpers. "Zoë and I are going to investigate. Paul, can you close the door behind us and keep an eye on it? Just in case something comes out. And if you don't hear from us after an hour, send in the Army." 

"No problem," Paul said cheerfully. 

Isobel stepped into the house, and heard the door click shut behind her. She shone her torch around what had, perhaps, once been a scullery and was now a modern utility room. 

"It looks pretty normal," she said. 

Zoë nodded. "The broom was like this." She placed it where she'd found it. "Maybe it just got knocked over by accident. Kath could have caught it with something on her way out." 

"Don't you believe in ghosts?" 

"Only if they present me with proper evidence of their existence. Like those vampires — they weren't shy about showing themselves." 

Isobel shook her head. "Maybe this time you'll get it. Come on, let's have a look round." 

The kitchen was adjacent to the scullery, and possessed of every modern convenience. But by the light of Zoë's and Isobel's torches, it was clear that it was in a chaotic state. Cupboards stood open, and overturned packets of food were dotted about. 

"It looks like a tramp's been living here," Isobel said, with distaste. 

"I didn't see any tramps." Zoë shone her torch around. "It's not very much worse than your kitchen." 

"Yes, but I'm a busy professional woman with more important things to do than tidying. Sandy's much more houseproud." She swept her own torch around again. "Do you think there could have been some sort of struggle here?" 

Zoë shrugged. "I suppose it's possible." 

"Perhaps she was kidnapped," Isobel suggested, as they passed through into the hall. "Her husband's got some sort of government job. Maybe someone wants to put pressure on him." 

"What sort of government job?" 

"No idea." 

Zoë paused, as if adding the fact to a mental file, then directed her torch at the mirror. 

"That's terrible writing," she said. "This is the bit Kath thought said 'Sandy', I suppose." 

"And this might be 'help,'" Isobel suggested. 

Zoë turned her head this way and that. "It could just as well be 'bulb', but I suppose 'help' makes more sense, if there was a kidnapping or..." 

"Or worse," Isobel said. She ran one finger across the writing. "I don't think it's blood." 

"Blood would be brown by now," Zoë agreed. 

"I think it's lipstick." Isobel thoughtfully rubbed her finger and thumb together, and raised them to her nose. "Yes, it could be." 

"Don't tell me. You can identify the brand, too." 

"Max Factor Mad Mad Melon," Isobel said promptly. 

"Really?" 

"Ah, my dear Watson, I see you have not read my monograph on the various brands of lipstick. The texture and scent are quite distinct—" She broke off, finding herself unable to keep a straight face. "No, that was just the first one I could think of." 

"It's funny," Zoë said. "The kitchen was a terrible mess, but here it's all quite tidy — apart from the umbrella stand." 

She set the fallen umbrella stand upright, so that it stood at the foot of the stairs, and gave it a suspicious look. It showed no signs of hurling itself to the ground again, though they both watched it for some time. 

Isobel's patience gave way first. "It isn't going to do anything, is it?" 

"Doesn't look like it," Zoë admitted. "What about in here?" 

She led Isobel through the nearest door. The room now illuminated by the beams of their torches was the room Zoë had seen through the window that afternoon — presumably, the drawing room. Apart from the spilt pot pourri, there was little other evidence of disturbance. The easy chairs stood in their places, nothing had knocked the twee-looking china figures off the mantelpiece, and all the pictures hanging on the walls were exactly level. The only other thing that looked out of place was on a coffee table between two of the chairs: a tray, containing a cup, saucer, small milk jug and a bowl of sugar. The cup lay on its side, and a pool of brownish liquid had spread across the tray. 

Isobel across to the tray, dipped a finger in the liquid, and gave the jug a cautious sniff. 

"The milk's off," she said. "And this coffee's stone cold. I bet it's been here for days." 

"I suppose since yesterday morning," Zoë said. "How about this? Sandy's in here drinking her coffee. She hears a suspicious noise, or she sees someone, so she drops her cup and goes out to deal with them. And on the way out she knocks that bowl off. Then, out in the hall, whoever it is grabs her—" 

"—And takes her out through the kitchen?" Isobel theorised. "But why would he open all the cupboards? It doesn't make sense." 

Zoë looked slightly put out. "Well, it's only a working hypothesis. With more evidence I can refine it a bit." 

"OK," Isobel said. "Let's do the upstai— Oh!" 

With a crash, she disappeared from view behind the chairs. A moment later she was upright again and dusting herself down. 

"There's a fireplace or something here," she said. "I tripped right over it." 

"Are you all right?" Zoë asked. 

"Just bruises, I think." Isobel looked down at herself. "It's too dark. If I missed that fireplace, what else haven't we seen?" 

"Well, I can't help it being dark," Zoë said. "That sort of thing tends to happen when the Sun sets." 

"I know. But why can't we turn the lights on?" 

Zoë opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. 

"Are you all right?" Isobel added. "You look like a village idiot." 

"That's exactly what I am." Zoë slapped her forehead, then hurried across to the light switch and turned it on. Illumination flooded the room. "I think I've watched too many episodes of _The X-Files_." 

"Is there _any_ chance that one day I'll get one of your references?" Isobel asked, as she crossed the room to join her. 

Zoë shrugged. "I somehow doubt it." 

Turning on the lights as they went, the two walked up the stairs, and took the first door they found. The room beyond was, by all appearances, the master bedroom. The bed was unmade and the floor strewn with garments. One wall was lined with fitted cupboards, several of which were standing open. 

"What do you think?" Zoë said. "Is this normal for her?" 

"I can't be sure." 

"Well you know her. And you're the expert on all this." With a gesture Zoë indicated the clutter of cosmetics and beauty accessories on the dressing table. 

Isobel began to make a tour of the room, making a desultory inspection of its contents. "Girly stuff, you mean?" she said. 

"I _meant_ it's from your time," Zoë said. "I wouldn't notice if something ten or twenty years out of date, would I? But 'girly stuff' will do." 

"Dismiss it all you like, it's got us out of trouble more than once. And I dread to think what you'd look like if I hadn't taken you in— Oh!" 

With a cry of surprise, Isobel stumbled again and nearly fell. One of her hands, flailing wildly, knocked a tin of talcum powder off the dressing table, filling the air with clouds of white dust. Her momentum sent her almost into Zoë's arms; the duo clung together, striving for balance, and finally achieved it. 

"Are you going to make a habit of doing this?" Zoë asked. 

Isobel drew herself up haughtily. "I tripped over something I couldn't see." 

"That's what you said last time. And this time the lights are on." 

"I know what happened." Isobel dusted talcum powder off her sleeve. "Look at all this mess. I knew this sort of thing would happen the moment we heard there was a poltergeist involved." 

Zoë looked down. "Well, what did you trip over this time? There's nothing there." 

"I'm sure there was just now." 

"Actually..." Zoë knelt down. "Look. This powder's all over the carpet, except this bit." 

She indicated an area of carpet, perhaps two feet long and six inches wide, adjacent to the bed. Unlike the rest of the floor, it was completely untouched by the talcum powder. Experimentally, Zoë picked up a handful of the powder and sprinkled it over the area concerned; it vanished, a few inches above the floor. Moving slowly and cautiously, she touched the carpet adjacent to the clean zone, then slid her hand across. As her fingertips entered the powder-free area, they disappeared; she drew her hand back sharply, to find it completely intact. Once more, she probed the mysterious area, and then looked up at Isobel, her expression serious. 

"Isobel," she said. "It's a leg." 

"What do you mean, a leg?" Isobel crouched beside her, and placed her hand where indicated. As her fingertips came in contact with whatever it was, they disappeared, but she could feel warm flesh under her hand. All evidence, save that of her eyes, seemed to point to the conclusion that someone was lying under the bed. She looked up, to see that Zoë was already on the floor, her head and shoulders lost to sight under the bed. 

"It's a woman," her voice said. "Definitely." 

"I won't ask how you found that out," Isobel said. 

"She's alive. Unconscious, I think." 

"Is it safe to move her?" 

Zoë emerged from under the bed, her jumper now streaked with dust, fluff and talcum powder. "I think so, but it might be a better idea to move the bed." 

"Then what?" 

"Then we call the Brigadier. I mightn't know much about the history of this decade, but I'm pretty sure it didn't include the invention of the personal cloaking device." 

With the bed pushed to one side, the two knelt either side of the invisible woman. Isobel rested a hand on the unseen head. 

"She feels feverish to me," she said. 

The woman groaned. "Isobel? Is that you?" 

"Sandy?" Isobel glanced across at Zoë, her expression suggesting a half-formed fear was crystallising into truth. "What happened?" 

"I can't see." A hand clutched Isobel's arm. "Something in the coffee. Don't drink it..." 

The hand let go, sliding limply down to the floor. The voice tailed off. 

"That makes sense," Zoë said. "If her retinas aren't visible, they can't absorb light." 

"Never mind the science." Isobel was already on her feet. "We need to get her to a doctor." 

"I don't think we need an ordinary doctor here. This is something for the Brigadier to sort out." Zoë stood up and started brushing the worst of the dust off her clothes. "You call him. I want to take a look at that coffee." 

*

Isobel jumped to her feet as the door of UNIT's medical bay opened and a beige-clad orderly emerged. 

"Is she—" she began. 

The man gave her a reassuring smile. "She's out of danger." 

"Can't you give us any more detail?" Zoë asked. "Did you manage to come up with an antidote?" 

"No; we had to treat the symptoms and get the drug out of her system any way we could. Once we'd done that her fever started coming down. If you'd been an hour later finding her it might have been too late." 

Isobel winced. "Can we see her now?" 

"She should be up to a short visit." 

Isobel beckoned impatiently to Zoë. "Come on." 

Now visible, if still a little translucent, Sandy Wilmington was lying back in the hospital bed, looking pale and drained. Her golden hair, showing brown at the roots, was spread out over the pillow behind her like a fan. 

"Isobel," she said. "And this must be your friend." 

"Yes. Sandy, this is Zoë. Zoë, Sandy." 

"Nice to see you." Sandy looked around the room. "I thought I'd never see anything again. Everything went dark, just like that. I was blundering about the house, knocking things over... well, you must have seen the mess I made. I tried calling but no-one came. And all the time my head was getting worse. The last thing I remember was falling off my bed. What happened to me? I thought there must have been something in the coffee." 

"Yes, the sugar," Zoë said. "It wasn't sugar. I knew as soon as I got it under the microscope. The crystal structure was all wrong. Do you know how it ended up in your sugar bowl?" 

Sandy made a weak gesture of bafflement. "I suppose it must have been something to do with Brian. Maybe it was something he brought home from work and it got mistaken for sugar." She looked around the room again. "Where is he?" 

"I'm afraid he can't be found." Isobel took Sandy's hand. "We think he must have realised he made a terrible mistake and panicked." 

"Or maybe he was trying to do away with you on purpose," Zoë suggested cheerfully. "My preferred hypothesis is he's an East Bloc agent, you see, and his controllers came up with this invisibility drug. Well, he found it wasn't much use to a spy, because of the blindness and the side-effects, but maybe it could be used to make someone— well, disappear. So he tried it on you." 

At the thought, Sandy let out a disconsolate sob. 

"Sorry about her," Isobel said. "She's so full of herself about finding the drug in the sugar there's no stopping her." 

"No, you were right to tell me. And thank you both — if you hadn't found me I don't know where I'd be." Sandy closed her eyes. "I'm ever so tired." 

Isobel squeezed her hand, and stood up. "Come on, Sparkles," she said to Zoë. "Time we were going." 

*

"I think this is the first time you've ever tidied a kitchen," Zoë said. "It's only a pity it isn't yours." 

Isobel wrung out the mop. "That's because I'm helping a friend. When Sandy comes home I don't want her to find the place all smashed up." 

"She's got to have a fair idea what it's like, hasn't she? I mean, she told us she'd knocked everything over in the first place, when she couldn't see what she was doing. I suppose when she was writing on the mirror she was trying to leave a message." 

"I should think so." Isobel wiped the mop over another area of the floor. "Anyway, it'll be a nice surprise for her when she comes back and finds everything tidy." 

"At least she was grateful," Zoë said. "Not like those people at Pencourtwood." 

"Which ones were they?" Isobel asked. 

"Oh, Isobel! You must remember them. Those very rude people we saved from the shape-changing alien." 

"Not ringing any bells here." 

"You've got to be doing this on purpose. You don't remember having to tie up that man from Torchwood to stop him calling in an airstrike? No?" Zoë shook her head. "And after it all you were in a terrible mood because you were wearing new boots and they'd got scuffed." 

"Oh, _that_ place. Got it." Isobel wrung out the mop again. "That woman was a nasty piece of work, wasn't she? We saved her life and all she said was to go away, our sort weren't welcome there. I wonder what happened to her?" 

"I think the Torchwood man offered her a job." 

"That's just the sort of thing they'd do. What's that you've got there?" 

"I found it in the cupboard." Zoë held up a jar of white powder. "It doesn't say what it is, so I think we need to make sure it isn't more of the invisibility drug. If it is, we need to get it disposed of safely. Not just pour it down the drain. We might get invisible sewer rats." 

"Ugh!" Isobel shuddered. "You said the invisible stuff isn't around any more in your time. How come?" 

"I suppose maybe it's banned by one of those secret protocols to the Geneva Convention. Or someone comes up with a simple countermeasure and the whole line of research just gets dropped." Zoë restored an overturned biscuit tin to what looked like its rightful place. "You know, I think I'm beginning to see your point about the countryside." 

"What point was that, then?" 

"Well, everyone was very helpful. You know, helping us get in and so on. And nobody tried to molest us or eat us or put us in a huge wicker figure and set fire to us... Actually, I don't think we'd be suitable for that one, but they mightn't realise until too late." 

Isobel shook her head. "You have the strangest ideas. So you like the country round here?" 

A note of caution entered Zoë's voice. "Why do you ask?" 

"I thought we could do a few photoshoots while we're out here. Platform boots, flared jeans, tie-dyed shirts, maybe a few flowers in your hair. A sort of hippy chic look. It's the coming thing." 

Zoë looked down at the bottle in her hand. "I'm almost hoping this is the invisibility drug. The way fashion's going, I think I'm going to need it."


End file.
